The Advocate

Yesterday, the Advocate published a profile piece on me in the online edition of their magazine. You can check it out here.

I am really grateful for the opportunity to be profiled in a magazine that I've read since before I came out of the closet. The magazine was one of the first places I saw being gay as a positive and not something that I had to hide or be ashamed of. It was really exciting to read through it yesterday morning, and get to see the final product of the interviews that I gave towards the beginning of the year, when the author was beginning the piece. The only awkward part of all this is that in the time since I gave those interviews, my personal life has changed significantly with the end of my marriage with Jeremy. For those of you who are visiting this blog for the first time because of the article, you can read my brief entry about our break-up here. I just feel that out of respect for Jeremy, it is necessary to direct you there.

While reading the article, I was taken back to last fall when we did get married, and I found it difficult to avoid ruminating over the maze of steps that led to where we are now. One lesson that I have learned is that politics and affairs of the heart do not mix well. Between the pressure of the deadline of Prop 8 and the November election, and my passion for our civil rights it was difficult to discern whether or not I was actually ready to take that step in our relationship. I obviously was not. But, I live, and I – hopefully – continue to learn. I hope that the gay marriage tide keeps moving in the progressive direction it has been since last November's devastating setbacks, and I look forward to a day when it is considered normal for any couple in love to get married.

Deepish Thoughts

Last week, I kept warning the many friends who came to witness my debut concerts with the San Francisco Symphony that I only had "five minutes of glory" in the program, feeling slightly guilty that they were going to sit through the entirety of the concerts just to see me sing. Of course, being a tenor, the thought that they would enjoy the parts of the concert that didn't include me didn't cross my mind until they all expressed their thoughts on the program in my dressing room after.

In actuality, my responsibilities in the Schubert Mass No. 6 in E-flat major amounted to much less than five minutes of glory – it was much closer to about two and half to three minutes of the roughly 51 minute piece. But a glorious few minutes they were. In our second and last rehearsal, Maestro referred to the section in which I sang (the "Et incarnates est" section of the Credo – a trio in A-flat for two tenors and a soprano in this Schubert setting) as follows: "For the audience, there is life before hearing the 'Et incarnatus' and then there is life after hearing the 'Et incarnatus'." After hearing that, a cellist sitting behind me muttered, "Whoa – no pressure…", sending the entire lower strings and myself into fits of laughter. For the rest of the Mass, I sat at the front of the stage in my tails (and in my new suit on Thursday afternoon) listening to Schubert's music and trying to look appropriately engaged and respectable.

The most frequently asked question last week was "what are you thinking while you are sitting up there?" Here are is a sampling, in no particular order, of some of the random thoughts that went through my head during the four concerts:

• I love this 'Kyrie'
  
• There are four people asleep in the center section of the audience
  
• Wow, this chorus sounds good.
  
• Oh, there's Debbie and Will.
  
• Wow, MTT is really committed to everything he does 150%. I could learn a lot from watching this man. It's like he has no fear and his completely and solely focused on the music and how he wants it to be shaped. It's such a calm and yet intensely passionate focus. Amazing.
  
• I wonder what the median age of this audience is today?
  
• That measure sounded so much like Mahler
  
• That passage sounds just like the Verdi Requiem
  
• The bass is walking out incredibly slowly today
  
• Why is everyone I got tickets for sitting so close?
  
• Why is that woman leaving now, of all times?
  
• It's so quiet during this pause! No coughing! Who knew it could be possible?
  
• I really am looking forward to eating that burger at Zuni tonight
  
• I hope I wasn't flat…
  
• The ladies of the chorus are always so in tune there – it's so lovely
  
• Ahhh…another fugal finish…

Onwards

There has been a sense of waiting to these first five months of the year. As I have struggled to adjust to all that has changed in my life since the turn of the year, I have been awaiting my chance to run away partly as a longed for escape as well as a chance to physically spur the process of moving on. As we enter the sixth month of 2009 and summer officially approaches, I find myself staring down a very long tunnel as I consider my travel schedule for the rest of the calendar year. In the past, this kind of beginning to a long stint of touring would simply seem depressing to me, as I would find myself dreading the dull ache of missing home for so long. But the paradigm of my life is different now, and I find that while I do still dread the prospect of ache of missing certain people (those people in whom I find my home these days), I find that I now perceive these next months of travel with anticipation and excitement, as well. It's a refreshing feeling, and for the first time I have the sense that I am going to be able to really enjoy and savor the luxuries and benefits this nomadically musical life affords me.

The next six months will see me in San Francisco, Atlanta, Marlboro, Buffalo, Rheingau, Edinburgh, as well as touring through England. Among the musical highlights I'm looking forward to, I'll get to debut with two symphony orchestras and two conductors that I have dreamed of performing with for many years. I'm also excited to continue along my journey of exploring Britten's music by diving into the Canticle V at Marlboro and performing my first Nocturne when I return to the Rheingau festival. And those are just some of the musical highlights. I've got many friends to look forward to spending time with, beautiful places both familiar and unfamiliar to see, a couple of stints of mini-vacation that I've built in to my schedule, and the excitement of finding a new physical home - all in all, a lot of things to look forward to with happy anticipation. Also, there are all of the unexpected surprises that come along throughout an adventure to look forward to, as well.

Today is the first day of travel, as I head off to spend some free days in San Francisco before my debut with the San Francisco Symphony next week. Let the adventure begin…

Prom Queen

On a decidedly unmusical note, this little story via the Slog made me smile this afternoon. Unfortunately, at my high school, we didn't have prom queens or kings. We cast lucky people in all of the roles in Saved by the Bell, instead. Imagine being voted Kelly Kapowski.

Barbiere auf Deutsch

Getting ready for an upcoming concert with the Atlanta Symphony has me revisiting Count Almaviva for the first time in many years. Coming back to Rossini is always a humbling experience, as I find that from a technical standpoint there is always further to go, regardless of how well it went the last time. I envy my colleagues who seem to be able to roll out of bed singing the stuff, tossing it off like it is the easiest thing in the world.

Trolling Youtube, I stumbled across this today, while studying various performances of the Count's first aria in the show. At least I only have to sing it in Italian.

Culture

In the weeks leading up to my venture here in Kansas City (I was a KC virgin up until my arrival yesterday afternoon), I've had numerous people give me their impressions of this city, which have been unanimously positive. I didn't know much about it beforehand, except that I had some very good family friends and a couple of wonderful colleagues who hailed from here. In recent weeks, as tomorrow's concert loomed closer and closer, people have described it as one of their favorite cities, and they've ordered me to go to a variety of places to eat barbequed flesh of various sorts. One random preview that made me smile was when a friend showed me this video from the local news over drinks at another friend's house. I would be so overjoyed if this woman came to our concert tomorrow.

Anyway, in my less than 24 hours here so far, I am totally charmed by the place. Upon my arrival at the airport, my driver even offered to give me a short tour of downtown before he dropped me off at my hotel – something I've never experienced from someone who works for a car service before. I've been impressed by the happy, easygoing, and welcoming atmosphere every moment since.

Last night, after a drink and quick dinner with the conductor and horn player, I ran to see some friends perform in the Lyric Opera of Kansas City's fun production of Pirates of Penzance. As I took my seat up in the top of the balcony of the almost sold-out theater, the person in the seat next to me started up a conversation. He asked me where I was from, and I told him that I flew in from New York City that morning. A little while into our conversation, he rolled his eyes and said for some not-so-evident, self-conscious reason, "Well, I mean, Kansas City isn't quite as cultural as New York." Taken aback, I looked around me at the multitudes of audience around us and pointed out that the crowd indicated that Kansas City was doing just fine on the culture front. About an hour into the performance, hearing the audience's uproarious and uncontrollable laughter and applause after each number, I wondered when the last time any classical music venue in New York was sold-out with an audience so clearly and naturally enjoying themselves on a Wednesday night. People here quite obviously genuinely enjoy their culture just fine. I'm quite impressed, Kansas City, quite impressed.

Doors and Maps

"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us."

-Helen Keller

I came across that quote on a longtime colleague's blog while catching up on my blog-reading this morning, and I marveled at how little tidbits of wisdom seem to drop unbidden into our lives whenever we need them.

Right around the turn of the New Year, the door that was my relationship with Jeremy unexpectedly, abruptly and jarringly closed, leaving me bewildered, sad and wading through seemingly endless waves of grief. It made our marriage one of the shorter ones on record, I am embarrassed and sad to admit, and it has changed, to steal a turn of phrase said to me the other day, the map of my life in fundamental ways that have left me feeling, at times, lost, dazed, and utterly confused.

There have been innumerable awkward moments over the past months since that door shut, and almost everything – like bad break-up songs that suddenly take on a new and somewhat irritating poignancy at times like these – has the potential to remind me of this incredible change in my life. Nonetheless, I have found that I have really wanted to remain somewhat private up until now about it all. A student asked me at a question and answer session a little over a month ago whether all the travel and time away required of me was hard to deal with in my personal life. A journalist remarked to me during an interview that it must be difficult maintaining a relationship over such great distances. The answers I found that I could muster were simply – yes, it can be difficult and it is hard. And it has been.

Despite the sadness, remorse, and guilt that I have felt about that one, significant door being shut, I find that Helen is wise. There are multitudes of possibilities for happiness and fulfillment before me. Taking stock of my life in those moments when I am firmly locked in the present, I am able see new adventures both musical and personal that await and promise to bring much happiness, growth, and fulfillment, and I regard them with excitement and anticipation, reveling in the new-ness and exhilarating unpredictability of it all. The challenge has been keeping my focus pointed both forward and in the present, and not looking backward at what was and is, ultimately, no more. Reading tidbits of wisdom like the one above, it's frustrating to know that such things are easier said than done, and that while there is much to look forward to and enjoy in terms of the incredible possibilities that are in front of me, there is no shortcut around the pathway of grief.

In the meantime, as I am home to celebrate Greek Easter with my family for the first time in almost a decade, I am trying to focus on the parts of the "map of my life" that remain constant and unchanging, grateful for the stability and comfort that they provide.

Handel

250 years ago, my favorite composer both to sing and to listen to died on this day.

Here's one of my favorite pieces that he wrote:




Tributes and news stories here, here, here, and here.

The Key of Joy

"For a moment, death let herself go, expanding out as far as the walls, filling that whole room and flowing into the room next door, where a part of her stopped to look at the sheet music open on a chair, it was suite number six opus one thousand and twelve in d major by johann sebastian bach, composed in köthen, and she didn't need to read music to be able to know that it had been written, like beethoven's ninth symphony, in the key of joy, of unity between men, of friendship and of love. Then something extraordinary happened, something unimaginable, death fell to her knees, for she had a body now, which is why she had knees and legs and feet and arms and hands, and a face which she covered with her hands, and shoulders, which, for some reason, were shaking, she can't be crying, you can't expect that from someone who, wherever she goes, has always left a trail of tears behind her, without one of those tears shed being hers."

- Death with Interruptions, Jose Saramago

I've always loved D major (so clean, simple, and bright with its two sharps), but reading this last night made me feel like I've been taking it for granted all these years.

Rat Race

On my way to my lesson today, I descended down into the bowels of the 96^th street subway station hoping that a downtown train would come quickly and whisk me away to where I needed to be. I stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down the tunnel to see if a train was nearby, when, through the sound-shield of my ipod, I heard the piercing sound of rats squealing. I looked down into the dirty cesspool of the tracks and saw two rats fighting viciously over a paper cup from McDonald's. They squealed at each other, teeth snapping ferociously, jumping to surprising heights to get out the way of their opponent's biting jaws, all while trying to make off with the used, dirty piece of litter. I puzzled over why they would battle so intensely over what, from my perspective, seemed to be a meaningless scrap of trash. Then I thought, if some other, larger being looked at my life – the battles that I choose to fight, the things that I think are important to me that I choose to worry and fret about – would they be just as baffled?

Spring Cheer

Yesterday, I woke, as I usually do, swimming out of a dream. In this particular dream, I was accidentally mooning the Queen of England on a state visit to Chicago, because I was lost running around with my pants falling down in the hotel where she was staying. One minute I was struggling to pull up my britches in a red-carpeted hallway in some Magritte-esque version of Chicago, the next I was conscious, lying in a foreign bed, my eyes taking in the grey light of the morning that streamed between the slats of the blinds in the bedroom where I was staying in the reality of Washington, DC. The slapstick cheer of my dream melted away into the dreariness of reality.

A short while later, while I was on a damp and muddy run through Glover Park, I noticed the dead-brown leaves covering the forest floor giving way to the multitude of tiny bright-green plants that were springing back to life and creating a new carpet on the ground. Looking up, I saw the wintry, skeletons of the trees slowly being taken over by white and pink flowers and yellow-green buds. All signs that spring is awakening. Letting go of my sense of dread at the prospect of yet another grey day, I splashed happily through the mud and puddles of what were April's first showers.

Handel's L'Allegro ed il Penseroso – the reason I am here in DC this week – abruptly begins with the tenor standing up and singing, "Hence, loathed Melancholy!" Being from Michigan, and having grown up with countless, sunless, cloud-ceilinged, dreary winters, I tend to associate grey days and Winter with doldrums and, well, melancholy. Seeing all of the new or resurrected life bursting forth brought me new subtext for my opening lines tonight – Hence, loathed winter and in with spring!

The Welcoming Neighbor

Before heading back to my apartment on Sunday after returning from Boston, I trekked up ten blocks to a close friend's house for a quick dinner so I could catch her and her adorable one-and-a-half year-old daughter before it was the little girl's bedtime. Leaving her apartment and beginning the walk back to my place with my suitcase, I noticed that it had started to rain again. Not quite a downpour, yet certainly more than drizzle. A healthy spring shower.

I debated catching a cab for the ten block journey, but decided against it. It's not too long of a walk, and I thought that I could make it without getting too drenched. I was mistaken. About half-way home, the shower picked up and became a heavier rainfall, big drops soaking my suitcase and blurring the lenses of my glasses. My leisurely walk turned into a wet slog, and I began to grumble. Too close for a taxi, I began to resent the wet chill that was seeping into my bones, and the seemingly endless number of grey days of the past few weeks. Not looking forward to coming home to an empty apartment, I groaned inwardly and quickened my pace.

Once in my building's lobby, I stood, dripping water onto the terrazzo floor, waiting for the elevator. As soon as the door started to open, I nearly bowled over the kind, older gentleman who is my neighbor that lives across the hall from me. I looked at him apologetically, and said, "I'm so sorry, Mr. K!"

"That's ok, young sir!" he said.

"Have a good evening, Mr. K," I said.

He looked at me and replied, "You, as well. Keep making beautiful music. I wish you well!"

I smiled as the elevator door closed, and the elevator lifted me home.

Twittering Bach

In an effort to find yet another way to procrastinate and putter away all my time, I have joined Twitter. While I am still trying to figure it out, I am beginning to find a use for it, and it is starting to serve as a place for me to start fleshing out ideas for this blog. I am hoping that it will help me post on here a bit more regularly. You can follow my tweets here.

While preparing for this St. John Passion that performs here in Boston tonight, I experienced a lot of the usual stress and frustration that learning Bach entails. I always come to a fresh Bach score cockily expecting it to be easy to learn, and I am always surprised and confounded by how tricky his music is with its unexpected and oddly kinky harmonic twists and turns. His music, drenched in faith and humility, requires those same attributes from those of us who perform it. That is probably why I find Bach more rewarding to perform than any other composer. In a way, it is the ultimate heilige Kunst, musically speaking.

This being my very first performance as the Evangelist and having lost some preparation time because of the unexpected concerts I had a couple of weeks ago, I felt a greater amount of anxiety wood-shedding it at the piano than I previously have experienced. In an effort to distract myself from the stress, I found myself turning Facebook to procrastinate – often putting whiny statements about the Bach up as my status. Before I knew it, people were posting comments on my status updates offering support, humor, wit, and perspective. Quite unexpectedly, a website that I generally view as time-sucking exercise had suddenly turned into a community that I could turn to for artistic support.

Part of the my nervousness about this St. John, aside from it being my first one and having to learn it under a bit of a time crunch, was because I was preparing it on my own, trying to be both continuo and Evangelist all at once. Arriving in Boston and meeting with the continuo players and the conductor brought huge relief, as it felt so much easier to finally be playing with others, especially with colleagues as good as these. As it turns out, my continuo colleagues are St. John novices, as well, so it has been a real treat to discover the piece for the first time together and figure out the intricacies of how we are going to tell the story. What has been especially wonderful about these rehearsals is how deeply each and every person involved is invested in the piece. The choir has been preparing for this for months, and the orchestra is really committed to every detail of telling the story and the music, as well. It's been a really special few days, and I'm really looking forward to our performance tonight.

All the best to my colleagues here in Boston for a great performance, and many thanks for an incredible couple of days of music-making and story-telling.

Chores

Simply staring at the pile of mail that needs to be sifted through on top of my piano, the stack of 1099 forms that remind me daily that tax season is nigh, the layer of dust that is covering my shelves in the bedroom that begs to be swiffered away, the cart full of clothes that need to be taken to the Salvation Army, and the multitude of other mundane chores that awaited my return home inspires an incredible feeling of fatigue. Feeling much too grand to deal with these things the week after my whirlwind tour of the United States a couple of weeks ago, I have let them stare back at me and nag at my consciousness. Of course, avoiding them has contributed to my sense of imbalance as of late, and I find that aside from practicing a lot simply out of necessity, I've not been able to get a lot of my to-do list accomplished. It's put me in a bit of a little funk the past few days.

The last tour of hopping from concert to concert was a really exciting moment in my career. In a way, after it was over, I really felt like I had taken a huge step towards a new level both artistically and professionally. For the first few days after Carnegie, I felt proud and happy of all that I had accomplished and really wanted to rest, relax, and bask in that feeling of success. But relaxation has given way to restlessness, and the simple things that all people need to take care of are not-so-subtly pulling me back into my routine again. The world keeps going moving on, and I have to keep up with it and find my back into the flow of it all.

Unexpected Steps Forward

Spring seems to have made its first appearance here in the past couple of days, and the warmer weather has encouraged me to emerge from my hibernating state after my multi-stop jaunt across the country a couple of weeks ago.

My tour of the country culminated with a concert in Carnegie Hall with the Chicago Symphony of the program that we performed in Chicago the weekend before. After the concert ended, I immediately went into vacation-mode for approximately 24 hours. At the end of the next day, I realized abruptly that I actually was not able to remain on vacation mode and that I needed to park myself at my piano and pound notes into my throat for the next two concerts I have coming up.

The catch has been that I picked up a little sinus infection after the Friday concert in Chicago, and while that hasn't affected my singing at all, it did stop up my left ear, and my hearing has been distorted since then. Under normal circumstances, I probably would make use of the time off to simply rest and recover, but I've had to chain myself to the practice room these past ten days, since I want to have these next two programs learned in time.

The oddest thing has been that even though I would think that my lessons would be fruitless and frustrating because of my being a bit sick, my blocked hearing has forced me to get out of my own way in my sessions with my teacher. I marvel at how the effort I normally put into mastering my technique can get in the way of achieving my goal. Having to let go because I can't trust my own ears right now, in these last few lessons, I've actually made some of the greatest strides forward that I've made in a while. Something that seemed initially to be an obstacle has instead become a stepping stone.

Heroes

This past weekend, I sang at a fundraising gala for the Napa Valley Youth Symphony. As I walked out on stage to sing the final number of the evening, I looked back at the children and teenagers of the youth orchestra that crowded the stage, their instruments poised to play the first notes of Make Our Garden Grow from Leonard Bernstein's Candide. One young man, who could not have been older than 8, was too little to sit, and therefore was standing next to his stand-partner. His bow, marked with a little piece of yellow tape to show its center much like my first violin bow had been, was set and ready to play the first chord. Looking back at those kids, I was reminded of my own youth orchestra days - days that I have been thinking about a lot this week since I left Napa.

My very first summer at Interlochen, just after finishing the 8^th grade, our orchestra played, among other things, excerpts from Stravinsky's Firebird. It was my first taste of Stravinsky's music, and I found myself transfixed. When I returned home to Ann Arbor after camp was over, I rummaged through my father's collection of recordings to see if he owned a recording of the complete piece. What I found was a recording with a flashy, red, yellow, and blue cover of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra with Pierre Boulez conducting. A few years later, my youth orchestra in Detroit was tackling Bartók's Concerto for Orchestra, and as I struggled to understand the piece, I looked for a recording to put my confusing second violin part into some sort of context as I studied it. I wrestled so diligently with that piece that I moved up 10 chairs from the back of the second violin section all the way up to the front when it came time for challenges that semester. The recording I turned to was also conducted by Maestro Boulez and the CSO. Just a couple of years ago, long after I had given up the violin and was singing professionally, I turned yet again to an album recorded buy the same forces as I was trying to make sense of Bartók's Cantata Profana when I performed it a couple of years ago with the St. Louis Symphony. Throughout every phase of my musical life, I have always looked to the recordings of Maestro Boulez and the CSO when it came to understanding music composed last century.

Today, sitting in my chair on stage at Symphony Center here in Chicago during our afternoon rehearsal, I looked up from my Pulcinella score at Maestro Boulez beating time with his hands and marveled that I was here actually making music with these people who, whether they know it or not, have taught me so much about music. For those parts of the rehearsal that I wasn't singing, I found it very hard not to stare star-struck and gape in awe that I am actually here this week.

Mistakes

In one of the elementary school music rooms that Lydia and I performed outreach programs in last week, there was a poster on the wall that colorfully displayed the following:

"It's ok to make a mistake when you've tried -.
It's a mistake not to try."

Coincidentally or not, just a day earlier, I read the following:

"If God is all powerful, and I believe that God is, then there is no such thing as an irreparable mistake."

-Julia Cameron, Finding Water

I'm still trying to let that all sink in.

Reaching Out

I looked at the clock that was encased in metal grating to protect it from any number of disastrous possibilities and took note of the time. 9:35 am. I groaned inwardly at the uncouthness of the hour and took in my first breath to sing, hoping that whatever came out wouldn't sound too ugly. I looked at the army of 85 five-year-olds sitting cross-legged on the gymnasium floor in front of me and ceased to care about my sound. The only important thing at that point was to try to keep their attention for the next 25 minutes.

Some of them started to sway to the music. Some just stared, entranced and fascinated. Some covered their ears with their hands, whispering too each other, "He's so loud!". Some squirmed. One boy started air-drumming. A couple others raised their hands, trying to signal that they had heard something I had asked them to listen for.

After we finished the song, we took comments and questions. Some quotes from the peanut gallery:

"You made me sad three times – my ears hurt."

"You're pretty good."

"I play the violin!"

"You're not in the Choristers!"

"Take it easy, Ruth!"

"But they're NOT in the Choristers!"

"I think that the Knight got away from the witch!"

"I think that the Knight died."

"I think that the Knight and the Witch lived happily ever after."

"How old are you?"

"My mom just turned 30!"

"Are you famous?"

"Are you rich?"

"I forgot."

"Did you have to sing that song in English?"

"Do you like to sing?"

After our last song, the school principal thanked Lydia and I for coming to perform, the kids and their teachers applauded, and the teachers tried to round up their students and file them out of the gym back to their homerooms in as orderly a fashion as possible. In the midst of all the ruckus, one little girl came up to me and said, "I'm gonna give you a hug, because you were really good." She gave me a big hug, and ran off to catch up with her fellow classmates as they headed off to the next new experience.

Small World

On Valentine's Day, I was pacing around my dressing room, cramming as much German into my mouth as possible, when Bob, the keyboardist for the Orchestra of St. Luke's, burst into my dressing room a flurry of energy and said, "Hey, Nick! It's great to see you! How've you been? Let's go through these recits…" He promptly sat down at the upright piano in my dressing room and started flipping through his score to find my first recitative. Before that, my conductor friend, Scott, had come down to see if I wanted to run anything before the concert with piano, which I did since I was so nervous. And then, right before the chorus was to go on stage, another friend of mine who happened to be in the chorus and was also named Scott came by to give me a big hug and wish me luck. Later, as the first half ended and we took some bows, I heard the cellist sitting behind me say, "Hi Nick! It's nice to see you…" I turned around and it was Myron, a colleague with whom I had given a concert of Purcell songs (along with Bob) 2 years ago. I smiled as he said, "Long time no see!" James Roe, who organized and played on that Purcell concert two years ago, was playing oboe in the Orchestra that night, as well, and during the intermission he stopped by and gave me a big hug.

When I arrived in St. Paul a few days later, I walked into the rehearsal room and saw a good friend from Marlboro, Maiya, sitting in her new position in the Viola section of the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra. Before rehearsal began, we sat down and chatted, making plans to have a drink after the first concert. Later that evening, when the Chorus arrived to rehearse their numbers, I looked up and saw Eugene, a friend from my University of Michigan days who now teaches at Macalester College, singing with the basses and a colleague, Nicole, from my days at Manhattan School of music singing with the sopranos.

Last week was an incredible journey filled with unexpected excitement and the discovery that I am capable of so much more than I ever thought possible. Because much of the excitement happened on the road, and because the concert at Carnegie happened at such short notice, when almost everyone important in my life was out of town or had other Valentine's Day plans, I couldn't help but feel a bit lonely when someone came by to ask if I had anyone for the backstage list that night and I answered, "No". But as the Carnegie evening and the week in St. Paul progressed, I realized how wonderfully close-knit our musical community can be. While there can be all of the drama and nasty competition that people think is there, there is also an incredible sense of camaraderie and support. People from almost every stage of my life popped up this week, and I came to the realization that through music, I am blessed with more friends than I ever imagined possible and am never really alone.

Change in Plans

After Saturday's impromptu Creation at Carnegie, I went for a drink to celebrate with Scott (with whom I would never have been able to do anything musically useful that night), a friend of Scott's who came to the concert, and my manager and her husband. As we were rehashing the excitement of the evening, I said, "I love the piece so much – now I just want to do it again!"

"Be careful what you wish for, my dear…" my manager said.

Prescient words, indeed.

On Sunday, after brunch with friends and drinks with a friend and mentor from Houston, I went home and packed my carry-on bag for a trip to Montana, where I was planning on rehearsing with my friend Lydia, who is to play my recital in Oberlin next week. She lives out there with her husband, who teaches at the University there. I was excited to get out of the city for a couple of days to visit with them and have a peaceful and beautiful place to revisit the recital program that had consumed my musical January. My plan was to stay out there until Thursday, and then come home to finish cleaning my apartment, host one of my best friends who is visiting the city this weekend, and repack my bags for a two week trip that had me hopping around the country from Oberlin, Ohio my recital to Napa Valley for a fundraising gala to Chicago to sing with the Symphony there.

I had an early flight on Monday, so I woke up at an ungodly hour and headed to Newark, checked in, went through the hassle of airport security, grabbed a bite to eat (it's a pretty dire situation at the Northwest terminal in Newark, I'll have you know), and then noticed that the first leg of my flight was delayed half an hour for a mandatory crew break. I went to the gate agent and asked if I would make my connection in Minneapolis, and he told me most likely not. I would miss my second flight, and the next flight leaving for Montana would leave at 9:30pm. I asked him if there was any other way for me to get to Montana at a decent hour, and he kindly rebooked on a United flight through Denver. This meant I had to change terminals and go through security again, but it meant that I would land in Montana only a couple of hours late, as opposed to losing an entire day in Minneapolis.

When I landed in Denver, I turned my phone on and saw that I had 5 voice mails. This does not bode well, I thought. One of them was from my manager, who asked me to call as soon as I could. The tenor colleague who has cancelled on Saturday was still ill, and had to cancel a run of The Creation (in English, this time) with the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra – would I be able to adjust my travel plans and do this? One really should be careful for what one wishes for, I thought. I also felt bad for my ailing colleague who had to cancel two of these now – being sick is a real drain when you are a singer.

Needless to say, of course I was happy to do it and adjust accordingly. So, I talked with Lydia and we adjusted our rehearsal schedule so we could get what needed to get done in two days instead of three, and I came here to St. Paul on Wednesday for a day of rehearsals, which, after last weekend, felt luxurious.

My couple of days here have been fantastic – my colleagues are brilliant singers and a conductor whose music-making I have admired from their recordings that I have collected over the years, and they sound wonderful. The orchestra is incredible, as is the choir – and I am getting to experience this incredible music for yet one more week. It's a real treat, and I am enjoying every minute of it. My dream come true is being prolonged, and I am relishing every second that it lasts.

The only catch – I'm on the road for 3 weeks now, and I've only got a suitcase with 3 days worth of clothes…